“Not abuilding,” I say, flailing gently. “Just... something with lines. And intention. Like—” I cut myself off. “You know what? You look amazing. Let’s leave it at that.”
She raises an eyebrow, clearly trying not to grin. “I’ll take amazing. But I might put ‘structurally sound’ on mydating profile.”
I stare straight ahead. The driver turns up the radio slightly, as if evenhecan feel the second-hand embarrassment rolling off me in waves.
Right. New strategy. Assertiveness. I can do assertiveness.
“So, I booked us a table at The Green Lamp,” I say, sitting up slightly.
She leans back in her seat, tilting her head to look at me. “Wait, is thisthatplace? The one where the WAGs always hang out?”
I try to play it cool. “Might be.”
“The place with the cocktails that come in a cloud of dry ice and cost more than a weekly shop?”
“That’s the one.”
She raises an eyebrow. “And you got a table?”
I shrug, aiming for nonchalant but I’m not sure if I succeed. “I know a guy who knows a guy.”
She stares at me, clearly trying to decide whether I’m full of it. “You’re a man of mystery, aren’t you?”
I give her what I hope is a suave, knowing look, but it probably lands somewhere between smug and slightly constipated. She smirks and looks out the window, and I swear I catch the faintest hint of a blush on her cheeks.
The rest of the journey is... quiet. Not in a bad way, but definitely in awe are both trying very hard not to be weird and failing slightlyway. Ivy keeps tugging at the hem of her top and shifting awkwardly in her seat like she’s trying to subtly negotiate a peace treaty with her trousers.
I sneak a glance at her—flushed cheeks, hair pinned just-so, lips glossed and slightly pursed in thought. She looks incredible. Also mildly afraid to bend at the waist.
I should say something cool. Confident. Low-key flirtatious.
“You look like a woman with very powerful ankles,” I say instead.
She blinks, turns her head slowly. “Sorry, what?”
What the hell, Theo? Powerful ankles? Powerful ankles?!
That’s not a compliment. That’s... that’s something your nan might say about a prize sheep.
“I meant the heels,” I say quickly, hands up like I’ve walked into a hostage negotiation. “The way you walked in them. With conviction. Poise. Stability. Not—not like a horse. God. That’s not—what I mean is—”
I glance over.
She’s looking at me now the way you might look at a man who just complimented your elbows with a straight face. A bit wary. A bit amused. Possibly wondering if I’ve been left unsupervised for too long.
And maybe I have. Honestly, maybe this is who I am now. A man who ruins compliments and smells faintly of overconfident aftershave and stress.
“I’m going to stop talking now,” I mutter.
“You probably should,” she says, biting back a smile.
“Yep.”
Silence. The car hums along, the driver mercifully ignoring us while some melancholy acoustic cover of a pop song plays quietly over the speakers.
I stare straight ahead, hands clasped in my lap like a man waiting for his performance review.
I can feel her still watching me out of the corner of her eye. I want to look. Idon’tlook. I’m afraid I’ll see confirmation of what I already suspect: that she’s realised this was a mistake. That she’s reconsidering the date. Thatshe’s mentally drafting a polite excuse to leave after the starters.
